Paging Dr. Rhodes, You're Needed for Immediate Suturing
Okay, I'm a wee bit concerned. Someone visited my blog after doing a Google Search on Stop+Bleeding+Mole+Shaving+Cut.
I'm stuck with this horrible vision of some adolescent youth (I'll call him, Scott), new to the realm of puberty, taking a razor over his tender face for the first time in his life to rid himself of the seven errant whiskers that have taking tentative root.
Suddenly, he slices over a large mole that has called his upper left cheek home for the past 14 years. Rudely dislodged without so much as an eviction notice, the mole's severed basement shoots forth a horrifying stream of blood, while the mole itself stays lodged between the first and second blades of Scott's fresh-from-the-box Mach 3 razor.
Terrified, Scott blotches handful after handful of toilet paper against the spewing wound, but to no avail. Feeling woozy from a loss of blood, Scott staggers from the bathroom, trailing blood to his bedroom where he frantically connects to the Internet and does a hurried Google search in a last ditch effort to find some sort of medical procedure to stop the flow of blood and safe his waning life.
His vision blurred by the life force ebbing from his body, Scott clicks on my site, hoping beyond hope that "Rambling Rhodes" is, in fact, a reputable medical establishment that specializes in halting the flow of blood from a freshly slashed mole. Instead, as he drops to his knees, rapidly losing the will to live, he's greeted with a turquoise screen. The last thing Scott reads before forever closing his eyes is, "Yes," he thought. "My grandma still has it."
Hours later, Scott's parents find his lifeless and moleless body on his bedroom floor. The only clue to his ghastly demise is scrawled in blood on the carpet, apparently hurriedly written by Scott himself:
"Rambling Rhodes must die."
Cats in Beakers and a Warning to Journalists
When did it become standard photography practice that, to visually augment a news article about a cloned cat, it's widely understood that you place a kitten in a beaker? Granted, it's impossibly cute, but really, it's not as if the kitten somehow was mixed in the beaker and then just miraculously coalesced right there in 2000 ML of liquid. Other areas of interest to note in the article include the insanely large cat atop its owner's shoulder and the extremely funny line: Now, they pay a monthly fee to bank Spot's skin cells, and look forward to the day when they may stroke his clone. I could go for a good clone stroking right about now.
The tumultuous ride continues here at IBM eServer Magazine, with the senior editor announcing his resignation, effective Friday, Aug. 23. What does this mean for me? More work for the same pay probably. *grumble, grumble* To any aspiring journalists out there, just let me offer these words of wisdom learned in just four years out of college: Run, do not walk, out of whatever journalism class you may be attending right now and declare a major in something, anything, absolutely anything else. May I suggest post-Inca Peruvian Culture Anthropology or possibly Assistant Crack Whore studies. Just don't do journalism. It's not worth it. Examples of my journalism degree working for me include:
1.) Nine months working as a reporter for the Winona Daily News, otherwise known as severe grunt work, raking in the paltry sum of $6 an hour. You read that right. Poverty anyone? Actually, I envied people living in poverty because they had it so good.
2.) Ten months working as news editor for a weekly newspaper called the Stewartville Star. Duties included reporting on every possible aspect of a 5,000 population city, including the always suspenseful city council and school board meetings. I learned enough about tax increment financing districts and teacher contract negotiations to last me a lifetime, while rolling in just over $11 an hour. Now I could look down at the people living in poverty while still envying those who were merely starving. Plus side? I got to take pictures and develop my own black and white images in a darkroom, which is totally relaxing work. The people I worked with were great, and it was at the Star that I started writing my weekly humor column that continues to this day.
3.) Two years working as a technical editor responsible for editing the content of IBM technical manuals. This was, quite possibly, the Great Poombah of all boring jobs, combing through technical material so involved, Einstein would have suffered a stroke. The trick was to keep sentence structure in mind without absorbing the actual information, while at the same time keeping your hatred of your manager in check just enough so you didn't belt her over the head with your keyboard and toss her down the hall. This girl redefined anal retentiveness, all the way down to her name, Jenifer, with one N. And don't you dare call her Jen, or she'll go off on some rant that can only be deciphered by others of her species. Thankfully, her species no longer exists because they kept eating their own young. Jenifer survived because nothing as foul as her could possibly be ingested. But I digress. Now I was making the big bucks, $15.25 an hour. And then IBM laid me off, and then hired me back a month later at $18 an hour as. . .
4.) News Editor of eServer Magazine, where I've been for about a year. I like this job. I'm good at this job. Jenifer is nowhere near this job. Everyone I work with is nice. Quirky, yes, but nice. I write articles, and I write product news pieces based on new and enhanced products geared toward IBM servers. I'm left largely to myself to get my work done, without the pedantic eye of certain Jenifers looking over my shoulder. I was just starting to remember why journalism was my college choice when this whole shake-up with the magazine started about four months ago. I'll ride it out and see what happens, but things aren't looking good. *gloom*
"Getting Off on the Wrong Foot" c. Ryan Rhodes, Nov. 19, 2001
It's generally understood by myself and most of my old high school classmates that I was pretty much considered a geek. I was one of those brainy guys who didn't study but managed to attain the A honor roll any way.
Regardless of the obvious benefits in the real world, being a brainy guy in high school is a guaranteed ticket to being a social pariah. I was accused of "reading the dictionary" and "going through encyclopedias for fun," neither of which were true.
Despite my brainy designation, I was perhaps guilty of doing some of the dumbest things imaginable, which only contributed further to my geeky image and added to the verbal tauntings of my classmates. Perhaps no other act resulted in more mental high school trauma than the time I shot myself in the foot with a B.B. gun. This was a very stupid thing for a brainy guy to do.
My freshman year of school loomed before me, it was the weekend before football practice began, and I was out walking with my Crossman 10 pump air rifle firmly in my grasp. I believed myself to be the blackbird assassin, and with my trusty mutt, Ray, bounding playfully by my side, we were a daunting duo to say the least. I can't really explain the appeal of shooting birds with a B.B. gun, and the thought actually disturbs me today, but at 15 years old, I considered it quality time. My dog, also, seemed to enjoy the outings, although I suspect he was just happy to be outside, where he could empty his bowels without fear of reprisal.
Ray was an enthusiastic rabbit chaser. And, even though he possessed half the speed and one quarter the intelligence of most rabbits, he managed to come close once in awhile, with 20 feet being considered "close." On that particular day, Ray surprised a rabbit, and, judging by the startled yip, himself as well. The two spooked and confused animals started an awkward chase in which Ray actually had the edge, and I absentmindedly lowered my gun just over my left foot to watch the show.
In a surprise move, Ray managed to make contact with the rabbit, and I overreacted to the close call by pulling the trigger, initiating a series of events that ultimately led to a steel ball crashing through my shoe and lodging firmly in the joint of my little toe. And it really kind of hurt. I hobbled hurriedly homeward, where I explained my situation to my father. He gave me a deeply concerned look, which most fathers probably give sons who have committed acts so stupid, they can only be rewarded with deeply concerned looks.
Then, it was off to the hospital, where I was certain there would be a crack team of experts who specialized in the removal of B.B.s from the feet of stupid kids. Much to my surprise, my crack team of experts seemed genuinely unprepared for the task. They took a series of x-rays, which proved what I already knew, namely that there was a metal ball lodged in my foot. I was, however, surprised at just how well a B.B. showed up in an x-ray. You may be curious as to how long it takes a crack team of experts to remove a B.B. from a foot. The answer, in my case, was four hours.
For four agonizing hours, a doctor, whom I was convinced obtained his medical license from a box of Lucky Charms, dug unsuccessfully in my foot using a glorified tweezers. They brought in a special x-ray television monitor, which they used to navigate to the metal orb that they consistently couldn't remove. Finally, just as I was about to demand that they leave my foot alone, Dr. Mengele freed the ball from my toe and held it triumphantly for all to see. Then he threw it away. I was sewn up, given a pair of crutches, and sent on my merry little way.
Unfortunately, my crack team of experts didn't offer any advice as to how I should tell my classmates what I had done come Monday morning and the first day of football practice. Initially, as I crutched my way into the locker room, every face was etched with concern. That concern gave way to boisterous laughter after I told them what happened.
I think I told the same story roughly 50 times that day, mostly to people who didn't believe me the first 49 times. On that fateful day, I spiraled forever into the realm of geekdom, never to emerge. I was no longer one of the brainy guys. I was that brainy guy who shot himself in the foot with a B.B. gun. Even the other brainy guys shunned me.
I guess I should blame myself for the whole incident, but I find that it's easier to blame Ray for almost catching that rabbit.
Stupid dog.
"The Ryan Rhodes Shopping Experience" c. Ryan Rhodes, April 25, 2001
I went grocery shopping at Rainbow Foods last week, and although the overall outcome was typical of my shopping prowess, the end result was still no less perplexing. In short, after spending 45 minutes, and $70, I found myself without anything to eat, or at least nothing that would constitute a meal.
As I stood in my kitchen, staring blankly into my spacious refrigerator that had very little in it, I replayed in my mind my recent shopping experience. Here, then, is a stream of consciousness explanation of how I routinely end up spending a lot of money on relatively no groceries:
Man I hate grocery shopping. It seems that every time I come here I end up spending all sorts of money on absolutely nothing. Why didn't the automatic door open? Oh, that's the exit. I should maybe try the Enter door. There we go. Automatic doors have sure taken all the work out of pushing and pulling my way into buildings. That used to be such a chore. Hmmm. Do I want a cart or a basket? I need a lot of groceries, so I should probably get a cart. But a cart is so unmanly. It's so much more manly to carry a basket. Cart or basket? Cart or basket? Whoa! Who is that attractive girl? She's going for a cart. I'll grab one for her just to be nice, and of course to ogle her a while longer.
ME: "Here, let me get that for you."
UNKNOWN GOOD LOOKING GIRL: "Thanks."
Well, that clinches it; now I have to get a cart or it will look like I just hover around handing out carts to women all day. Let's see, I suppose I should make my way through the fruit and vegetable aisle. I don't know why I bother. I can never buy anything that doesn't have a shelf life of over three weeks. That reminds me, I have to throw away that bag of iceberg lettuce I bought a month ago. It's starting to look brown and soggy. Brown and soggy? That reminds me, I have to do laundry this weekend. Let's see, I need some sort of food. I don't know why people waste their time making out grocery lists. I know exactly what I need. It's all in my head.
Oooohh, I need hot sauce. But I already have five bottles at home. So what, I can never have too much hot sauce. Don't forget to buy a bottle of ranch dressing. But, I already have four bottles of ranch dressing, and all my lettuce is brown and soggy, and I have to do laundry. Well, I suppose one more bottle won't hurt. Hey, I should really buy some salsa. What goes good with salsa? What doesn't go good with salsa? Good point. I'll buy some salsa. Note to self: look for things that go good with salsa. Hey, now I'm getting to the good stuff. I need like eight boxes of macaroni and cheese and five boxes of hamburger helper. Well, don't forget to buy hamburger and milk then. Note to self: buy milk and hamburger. It's all in my head.
I wonder if macaroni and cheese goes good with salsa. I'll have to try that. I'll call it Salsaroni. No, that would be stupid. Ah, the soup section; my one stop quick meal section for soup and sandwiches. That reminds me, I should go back and pick up some bread and sandwich meat. Right. I'll make a mental note of that. It's all in my head.
Hey, that good looking girl just rounded the corner and she's checking out the soup too. We have something in common. She just dropped her shopping list. I'll pick it up for her.
ME: "Here, let me get that for you."
UNKNOWN GOOD LOOKING GIRL: "Thanks."
I wonder if she noticed that I'm smoking hot. Let's see, I'm in the chips and snack section. Do I need any chips or snacks? Chips. What goes good with chips? Chips and what? Chips and what? Well, I probably don't need any chips. I can always come back if I decide I want chips. It's all in my head.
I should really swing back and get that bread now. I'll get two loaves. You can never have too much bread. I wonder what the weather is going to be like this weekend. Let's see, cleaning supplies. Do I need any cleaning supplies. Yes, I need some sort of shower cleaner because. . . well, it just really needs to be cleaned. And toilet cleaner because. . . well, it just really, really, really needs to be cleaned. Whoops, my cart is blocking the aisle and someone wants to get by. Oh, it's that really good looking girl again.
ME: "Here, let me get that out of the way for you."
UNKNOWN GOOD LOOKING GIRL: "Thanks."
I should have said more to her, but here I am clinging to a bottle of toilet cleaner. What was I going to say, "My name is Ryan and I'm going to clean my dirty toilet tonight. And your name is?" Don't forget to buy milk, and lunch meat, and cheese, and hamburger, and something that goes with salsa. It's all in my head.
Hey, I need something quick to eat tonight. Pizza. I can never go wrong with pizza. Let's see, this pizza has five servings with 30 percent fat per serving. So, I just won't eat tomorrow. Or the next day. Well, that should do it. I guess I can head to the checkout line. I'm sure I've forgotten to buy something. Oh well, if that's the case, I can always come back. I'm really good at remembering things I need.
It's all in my head.
Droopy Eyes and a Long Work Day Ahead
I wonder when it was that I became unable to endure consecutive days of late nights and early mornings. When I first left for the adventure that was college, I could function on 2 hours of sleep and still manage a daily eight hour class load, go for a five mile run, play a pick-up game of touch football, play video games in the student center, watch television until 2 a.m., study for three hours, and repeat the process; with drinking and partying thrown into the mix on the weekends. I never though twice about it. I was Slumberless Man, and I was really good at it.
This weekend, I went to bed at 3 a.m. on Saturday (up at 9 a.m.), 2:30 a.m. Sunday (up at 10 a.m.), and 2 a.m. on Monday (up at 8 a.m.), and now I feel like absolute shit. Granted, I had fun each night, and I wouldn't go back and exchange my activities for others, but why do I need so much sleep? At 27, I refuse to say I'm getting old. Anyway. . .
A major part of my exhaustion is likely due to the fact that I golfed for 5 hours yesterday, ran five miles, and then went swimming for two and a half hours, all on the energy provided by a medium fries and five chicken tenders at Burger King. Just for the record, chicken tenders are not tender, and there's some real question as to whether they're actually chicken. These things were so rubbery they acted as some sort of dental trampoline. *boing* *boing* *boing*
I said my goodbyes to my parents on Saturday. They're heading back to Tokyo next weekend and I'll be unable to see them off because I'll be at a friend's wedding. There's something strangely depressing each year I bid farewell to my mother and father as they go back overseas to teach, leaving me grounded in Minnesota, dreaming of the day when I have enough "work experience" built up that I can find employment in an exotic country. I envy them and their jetsetting lifestyle, especially when I'm hit with the realization that my Monday will now consist of sitting in an IBM office writing a magazine article about iSeries selling strategies among independent software vendors. PU.
On the other hand, the IBM menu today consists of pork stir fry and an egg roll. That's pretty exotic.
Isn't it?
